


i'll take your bones home

by justwaitaclocktick



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen, I just have a lot of Targaryen feels, Kind of AU?, Spoilers for all books
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-31
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-12-07 03:40:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/743781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justwaitaclocktick/pseuds/justwaitaclocktick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Death becomes you,” is all she can say.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Viserys

**Author's Note:**

> I decided I needed to get some Dany-centric drabbles out of my head.

His ghost first appears when Khal Drogo is wounded after the raid of the Lhazareen.

Irri and Jhiqui help her out of the bathtub. Doreah hands her a towel and leads the girls out of her tent, smiling at Dany like a beautiful, golden cat.

She towels off and slumps onto the bed. The _hrakkar_ pelt is smooth and soft beneath her bare body, and the fire blazes in its iron cage, left over from heating the bathwater. Dany sinks down into the fur. The days on the fields of the Lamb Men are warm enough, but the nights hold a chill wind that whistles through the plains.

“Their comfort will do you no good when he finally chops that ugly braid off and your entire mongrel horde is shamed in battle.”

Daenerys bolts upright to snap at him before she remembers that he is dead. He stands by the candlelit chest which holds her dragon eggs, every bit Viserys. He wears a king’s crown, his moon-coloured hair pinned in tiny, looping braids beneath it. _Is this what awaits me in death?_ She will not ask him. 

He pins her with his pale eyes and it is only then that she remembers she is naked. She does not scramble for cover— _he is dead, he is dead, I watched him die_ —but stands and wraps the pelt across her shoulders, wearing it like a cloak. The glossy white fur hangs to her ankles.

“You died in Vaes Dothrak,” Daenerys says. It sounds ridiculous out loud, she thinks, but Viserys has never sounded anything but, not after his stories of home lost their shine and a mad gleam began to take root in his eyes.

“As it happens, sweet sister, I know that I am dead. It is not something one easily forgets.” Viserys uncrosses his arms to adjust the pale gold crown atop his head. He wears a rosy grey jerkin and white linen trousers hang over the silvery sandals that gleam in the firelight.

“Death becomes you,” is all she can say. Gone is the overdressed, garish princeling who grappled for a throne a sea away, the boy who muddied his silks in the tall grass.

He doesn’t seem to hear her; he is staring at the pelt draped over her. 

“Yes,” he murmurs after a long while, “and you are resplendent in your husband’s spoils, _khaleesi.”_

He chokes on the word and looks away.

Daenerys feels a familiar piercing sensation in her throat. She tries to burn away the tears by staring into the fire. She swallows her fear and says without looking, “Are you real?” Something inside of her cringes, waiting for him to come alive and throttle her. She has forgiven him of his violence—foolishly, she knows, but that is the way of her heart—but can never forget.

He doesn’t respond immediately. He hums a tune Dany knows well, a song that used to echo in his thin voice throughout the halls of the house with the red door in Braavos. Viserys told her once that though it may be a Lannister song, the dragon’s claws are sharper than a cat’s. But whenever he grabbed at her arms and forced her to look into his eyes, she felt nothing but the grip of a boy and saw no fire in his gaze.

“This is real,” he says in that false voice. Dany looks up, expecting to see him pretending not to cry, but all she sees is the last of his silver presence fading away.

As Dany shrugs the pelt off, she thinks that this might be the most real Viserys has ever been.


	2. Jaehaerys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not as happy with this bit as I was with chapter one, so there may be some edits later on.

The second ghost comes to her a few nights later.

Dany takes her silver and rides out into the fields of the Lamb Men. She rides until the night can no longer be called young, and then she slows her mount to a slow walk. She marvels at the field of the Lhazareen as seen at night. Under the light of the moon, she can almost believe she rides west to her home, to take back the kingdom Viserys died for.

“A lovely evening, Princess.”

Dany whirls her torso around and stops her silver. Before her stands a man with hair the colour of the moon. It is thin and hangs to his shoulders, but it is combed and smooth. His face is narrow, his nose long, his brow crowned by gold and black iron points. His eyes are a watery lavender colour, thick with regret and something else. 

Viserys had not appeared to her again, and Dany had assumed that there would be no more visitations. Standing before her is an older man, a king of the Iron Throne. She doesn’t know which.

“It is a beautiful night indeed, my lord,” she says. He stares up at her and smiles, his face creasing at the eyes and the mouth. He looks tired, like a man after yet another sleepless night.

“Not half so beautiful as you, Princess Daenerys,” the dead king says. “Or do you prefer to be called _khaleesi,_ I wonder?”

Daenerys can sense no ill will from this spectre. He seems solid enough, if a little frayed at the edges. She admires the silvery velvet cloak he wears over his muted red garb.

“I wonder what you are called, my lord.”

He chuckles and bows before her. “They called me Jaehaerys, second of his name, but I would have you call me grandfather. I would that you walk a ways with me.” 

Daenerys swings down from her silver and presses her nose up against its own. “Stay,” she whispers, and joins her grandfather. He holds out a crooked arm for her to grasp; she takes it and feels a smile tugging at her lips. 

They walk in silence until they can see the edge of the Dothraki Sea. The tall grass waves in the distance as the cold wind passes through it. Normally Dany would shiver but arm in arm with her grandfather, she feels no chill.

“I ruled the Seven Kingdoms well, I think. I certainly hope I did.”

“Viserys always spoke highly of you.”

“Hmmph,” her grandfather says. “I ruled for three years, but I suppose the history books got something out of it. I don’t imagine your mother told him many nice things about me after I arranged her marriage to Aerys.”

Dany is silent at the thought of her mother, but she has only ever known a small, warm feeling inside of her regarding the woman. Jaehaerys is quiet as well, and when she asks him about it, his sigh is desperate, otherworldly, befitting a ghost.

“That, child, was my biggest mistake, and I know the realm has bled for it.”

“I’m sure—”

“Your father was a sick, man, Princess. You have been told this before, but doubtless you did not believe it, not wholly. He burned men alive and then forced your mother into his bed. Do you know he planned on burning the capital to the ground?”

For a moment there is nothing but the wind.

“Had I let Rhaella marry anyone else, even that wretched lowborn Ser Hasty she mooned over, mayhaps she would have lived through your birth. Your father was not so sick as he ended up until after I died.”

Dany doesn’t know what to say, but instead of saying nothing, she stops walking and looks up into her grandfather’s sad, pale face.

“Is there a reason you appear to me? Viserys gave rest to my heart, but I think you have some other gift for me.”

Jaehaerys smiles at her, and an image of a grinning young man flashes into Dany’s head, bright as the stars. 

“Child,” he says, and his smile is a grimace, “I must beg you not to trust the priestess. That is what I have to give you. I have seen blood on her hands, and blood magic will ruin what you have wrought.”

Daenerys nods, doubt and terror for Drogo heavy in her chest.

“Let us return to your horse,” Jaehaerys says. “I fear I cannot give you these hours of sleep back, but I have offered you my counsel, Princess.”

He walks beside her as her silver carries her slowly back to the _khalasar._ When she bids him goodnight, he kisses her on the cheek and says, “I do not know who will appear to you next, Princess, but there will be more. We will guide you across the Narrow Sea and see to it that you win your throne.”

He looks up at her, and the crown on his head seems to weigh less than it had. As he disappears, her grandfather's eyes have taken leave of their regret and look to be those a man seeing the dawn.


	3. Baelor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not entirely sure where this is going to go, and much as I try to cut chapters down to a size befitting a series of drabbles, they get a little out of hand. I hope you like it.

So beautiful are her dragons that Daenerys finds herself in a near-constant state of marvel. 

Drogon licks at her face with his tiny black tongue and his tail tickles her spine. Rhaegal lounges in a spot of sunlight on a sheer rock, mewling as he stretches. And under the rushing water of the stream, Viserion is a green and bronze menace. He chases after darting silver fish and leaps out of the water to amuse Dany with his clumsy aerial tricks before diving back in to terrorize the stream’s population.

The sun shines softly above the verdant canopy, filtering down into the mossy forest below. The stream is clear and often flashes a myriad of colours in the corner of Dany’s eye as the sun glints off the surface. Flowers in soft blues and violets line the shore of the stream, a tiny branch of the Qhoyne. These flowers are sweet and mild, and Dany loves them. The flashing blooms a florist in Qohor tried to sell to her are nowhere near as lovely as these small, whispering wildflowers. Dany picks a few and begins to weave a chain of them, stroking Drogon’s scaly neck all the while. He purrs and snaps the head off of a daisy.

She has taken this day for herself while Ser Jorah scours Qohor for any supplies they may need to cross the Red Waste, as the _khalasar_ lost most of its provisions after it split apart. She will not leave the dragons and taking them into the city is indubitably foolish, so she followed a small tributary of the Qhoyne, tailed by Jhogo and Irri.

Daenerys loses herself in the weaving of her daisy chain and it is so calming that she does not notice him at first. But she does hear a rustle and looks up to see a man in the shadows of the trees across the stream. She braces for the familiar clenching of fear inside her chest; when she breathes easily she knows it to be a ghost.

“Jhogo, Irri,” she calls. They look up, their eyes still enchanted by the dragons. “Leave me.”

Jhogo arches a dark eyebrow but Irri takes his hand and pulls him back into the forest. “Yes, _khaleesi.”_

The figure steps out of the shadows and crosses the stream. He lifts his white robe up to show bare, bony feet sliding into the water. Dany knows who he is before she sees the silver-gold hair or the thick crown of flowers.

“Lord Baelor,” she says as he sits down next to her. He is thinner than any man she has ever seen, like a starving child of the slums grown into a king.

“May I join you?” His wide violet eyes meet hers. He stares in wonderment before smiling as she nods yes. He pauses before plucking his first blooms from the ground. “You are exceedingly beautiful, you realize.”

Dany almost flushes but she knows this man. Baelor the Blessed, Baelor the Beloved. Baelor the Chaste, Baelor of the Maidenvault. She will not be the subject of his self-loathing and suppressed lust, however, so she says, “Your Grace, I hope you are not uncomfortable around me. I am only a young girl, after all.”

“I would not dare to objectify the Mother of Dragons,” he says, intent on the additions to his floral crown.

“Mother of Dragons,” Dany says wonderingly. Rhaegal chirps. 

“You must acclimate yourself to such titles, Princess. Already you are Daenerys Stormborn Targaryen, the First of Her Name. After a while, these names become chains rather than accolades.”

The wood is quiet for a moment but for the gurgling of the stream.

“Tell me, Lord Baelor. As a spirit, can you render yourself invisible to individuals?”

“Of course.”

“Then why did you not come to me directly, instead of waiting for me to dismiss my guards?”

Baelor stops picking at the flowers; Dany had not realized how swiftly his spindly fingers were moving. “They called me mad,” he says, “and I believe I was. Death lifts so much worry from the mind, you know. Near on two centuries of being dead and I have not thought on my life much until now.”

He stares at the dragons, Rhaegal especially. The cream-and-gold creature climbs up Baelor’s sleeve. “I spent years praying over my eggs, but the gods never saw fit to grant me children such as yours.”

“Lord Baelor, you locked your sisters in a vault. I don’t think your gods saw fit to grant you much of anything.”

She recoils at her own words, of course— _rash girl,_ she thinks—but the spirit of Baelor Targaryen smiles his sad smile. “I did, didn’t I.” It is not a question.

“My lord, I apologize—”

“No,” he says, stroking Rhaegal’s wings. “You are correct, of course. I lost myself in my conviction.”

Dany knows what that is like, of course. She recalls a time when all she saw was red. Her reflection in the mirror, Mirri Maz Duur’s face in her mind, her husband’s horse and strong-boned face, the blood birthing bed tossed into the fire by the midwives.

She doesn’t say any of this, of course, but Baelor knows all the same.

“You are not entirely at fault, Princess. Carry on with your path and you may yet redeem yourself. The gods have granted you a means to an end, as well as companions for life. Take their outstretched hands and feel them smile upon you.”

He stands and Rhaegal flutters down off his shoulder; Baelor is already beginning to fade.

“But,” she says, quickly, panicking. “But what if I don’t believe in the Seven?”

He chuckles. “That is not a discussion we were meant to have, Princess. Seven hells await the sinful, but seven smiling gods offer you their help. Take what is given to you, never mind your piety.”

 _“Khaleesi,”_ Irri says, rustling as she rushes back. “Who were you shouting at?”

Dany kisses her on the cheek as Jhogo comes stepping over a large root. “The gods.”


End file.
